


how can i tell you (when i can't find the right words to say)

by arms_full_of_hyacinths



Series: like a sea around a shore [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Crying, Drunken Confessions, First Kiss, Fluff, Freddy Mercury Watches In Despair, I'm Not Crying My Eyes Are Just Nervous, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mixed Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 07:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19436428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arms_full_of_hyacinths/pseuds/arms_full_of_hyacinths
Summary: Crowley has never told Aziraphale how he feels, of course. He can barely admit it to himself. Besides, how is he supposed to distill six thousand years of unspoken yearning into six pathetic syllables?Anyway, Aziraphale should really know by now.





	how can i tell you (when i can't find the right words to say)

They were drunk. They often were, in that cozy back-room of Aziraphale’s shop, sloshing the wine in their glasses and bickering [1] until Crowley almost passed out on the threadbare tartan sofa. And then Crowley would pick himself up and drain the last of his wine, bid Aziraphale a slurred goodnight, and stumble down to the Bentley. It was tradition. Even the Apocalmost couldn’t put an end to it. Often, they’d have dinner first, at the Ritz or some cozy little hole in the wall. Always, Crowley would eventually drag himself away from the insidious comfort of the bookshop and saunter out into the cold London evening. 

[1] Not “bickering”, Crowley reminded himself. Elderly couples _bickered_ , the two of them _bantered_. Quite wittily. And if sometimes the fond exasperation in Aziraphale’s voice made his heart swell uncomfortably in his chest, well. The wine could be very strong.

He’d hated the cold since Eden. It was so bloody hard to get warm again, and sometimes he just wasn’t willing to make the effort. Everything was effortless with Aziraphale. Except… well. Perhaps Crowley had let himself slip back into old habits a little too soon. It was hard to resist the drunken urge to reach out and take the angel’s soft hand in his own now that he knew what it felt like. Like sliding his hand into a fuzzy mitten knitted by an exceedingly loving grandmother, which had been left by the fireside to soak heat from the crackling coals. Crowley wanted desperately to feel it again. Only, you understand, because it was warm. Not because Crowley had _liked_ the simple act of winding their fingers together and running his thumb over Aziraphale’s knuckles. But his hands got cold so easily.

“All I’m saying, dear boy,” Aziraphale pressed on, in a tone that made Crowley suspect he’d already forgotten what he meant to say, “is that, well. You know.”

Crowley hissed in exasperation. “Queen. You were goin’ to say something about Queen, angel, [2] an’ if you could just get on with it and pour me another glass tha’d be fantassstic.”

[2] Aziraphale had been trying to say something about Queen for the past twenty minutes, and Crowley had resorted to miracling the glass full of wine himself. It really never tasted right.

The angel’s face lit up, and Crowley had to turn away as a sip of wine caught somewhere in his throat. “Of course! Thank you, very kind of you to remind me.”

He grumbled, but didn’t argue. It might ruin the angel’s feeble concentration. Aziraphale was clearly trying very hard to get somewhere. It had been almost endearing for the first ten minutes or so. A bit like a puppy repeatedly knocking the same oversized stick into a doorway, thinking each time that it would definitely fit with just one more push. Well, not endearing to Crowley, of course. Just endearing in general. Crowley had been gleeful to see the angel so off his game. And maybe, just maybe, a little charmed. But anything can get tedious after twenty absolutely sloshed minutes.

“What I was trying to say is, well.” The angel looked suddenly uncomfortable. 

Crowley tore his attention away from the wine to regard him with suspicion. “Yesss?”

“Only, my dear, that I’m surprised you’re such a fan of this particular brand of bebop-- Queen, yes, I know-- when you’re really the last person I’d expect to go for all that love song business.” Then he drained his glass. [3]

[3] The glass had been empty for most of his rambling, but was suddenly quite full, and downing it occupied him for a long moment of awkward silence.

Crowley scrambled. “Yeah, well, no, but— I mean, Mercury wasss a genius, you know—” willing his hiss to disappear, he tried very hard to think of something that wasn’t: _Well, I’m all gooey for you, aren’t I?_ Aziraphale would get huffy at that. Probably storm out like the time back in Rome when Crowley (absolutely sloshed) had called him _Enough of a temptation all by himself, honestly, just look at those big blue eyes_. Ah, but they were both familiar enough with temptation. “Tempting! Yesss, nothing like romance to get humans really in the mood for some good ol’ fashioned horizontal mambo.”

“I see.” Aziraphale looked a little put off by that, so Crowley settled on it, feeling triumphant.

“Y’know, romance and all that, s’just a path to lust. Tha’sss all. So I’m an expert.”

Aziraphale snorted. “An expert in the field of romance? Really, dear boy.”

“‘Course I am.” Crowley scowled. “I can be ssso romantic you wouldn’t believe. Look, I’ll— I’ll prove it.”

“What on earth are you planning to do, seduce some poor human wandering the streets alone?”

“Nuh. I’m jus’— I’ll jus’ say something’ romantic.”

He could’ve sworn Aziraphale rolled his eyes. But that wasn’t a very angelic thing to do, was it? [4] “Well, go on then. Impress me.” 

[4] It was. Sarcasm may have been firmly in the realm of Hell, but passive-agressive exasperation was quite in line with the general mood of the angelic host.

And Crowley hadn’t thought that far ahead. He’d been bluffing, as always, and Aziraphale was really going to just stand-- well, sit-- there and ask him to be romantic? He couldn’t back down from that kind of challenge. [5]

[5] He could. It just seemed like an awful waste.

After a few moments of stuttering, Crowley focused in on Aziraphale. Had to tailor his attack to the target. He took in the outdated sweater, soft cheeks, pudgy hands clasped in the angel’s lap. Crowley’s mouth felt uncomfortably dry. Memories rose to the surface like champagne bubbles. Aziraphale, eyes shining with tears as Crowley passed over a stack of unburned books. Blush dusting his cheeks over a hundred nights of drinking. Brushes of contact, the angel’s hand on his shoulder, Crowley holding him up as they stumbled through ravaged streets side by side. Smiles, thousands of them. Soft and fond and anxious and broken, but all uniquely Aziraphale. The angel shifted impatiently in his seat as Crowley deliberated. His posture was always perfect, even when he was drunk. Light hair, soft and fine, brushed across his forehead. It shone like starlight. 

“Wouldn’t trade you for all the stars in the sssky,” Crowley murmured, hoping desperately that his glasses hid the (frankly, embarrassing) blush he could feel stinging at his cheeks. Cold-blooded beings of pure evil weren’t supposed to blush.

Aziraphale just chuckled, but he had that twinkle in his eye that Crowley despised; sparks of fondness that got him all fuzzy and overheated inside. “Not even alpha centauri, eh?”

Crowley thought he might be sick, or perhaps levitate a few feet off the ground. “Not even that.”

***

That was what really pushed Crowley over the edge. He’d looked the angel dead in the face, been as mushy as a piece of white bread soaked in cream, and Aziraphale had laughed it all off! Crowley stumbled out the door at the end of the night just the same as always without even a “dreadfully sorry, dear, but that’s not quite how angelic love works” to give him some resolution.

Six thousand years of tempting and thwarting, wiling and wining. They’d been through the arc, the plagues, the library, the Blitz, even the bloody Apocalypse-not-Now-thanks-try-again-later. Crowley was tired. He’d done a shoddy enough job of hiding his feelings from himself, he couldn’t believe he’d been any better about hiding them from Aziraphale. If they could survive the End (?) together, they could very well survive a little [6] spat over Crowley’s improper attachment. They used to go millennia without seeing too much of one another. The very idea twisted his stomach into anxious knots, so he promptly binned it. Forgiveness was an angel thing. Or at least it was an Aziraphale thing. And Aziraphale was the only angel Crowley cared about. So, he reasoned, forgiveness would eventually come.

[6] In all probability, a rather large spat. Maybe massive. But Crowley had slept for centuries before, hadn’t he? 

He held it in until their next appointment for dinner at the Ritz. Of course, his look was generally the most fashionable style of the day, but it couldn’t hurt to lean a bit more formal for just one occasion. And so what if it was any less trendy than his usual attire? Being a little retro was usually in vogue anyway. 

Wrinkled bowtie in hand, Aziraphale bustled around the bookshop, searching for his nicest sweater vest. “I haven’t a clue why you’re so dressed up, but I’m not about to feel outdone all through dinner.”

“I dressed up for you,” Crowley drawled, intentionally casual. “No need to get in a tiff over it.”

The angel froze with his back to Crowley. “Well. You know, dear boy, there’s really no need. But I suppose there’s all the more reason for me to measure up.”

Crowley suppressed a pleasant shiver at the familiar endearment. He also tamped down the sudden jolt of terror that ran through him as he realized that he might never hear it again. Sliding off his glasses, Crowley crossed the room to stand before the angel. “Listen,” he implored. He looked Aziraphale dead in the eye. “This might be a bit sudden, but I need you to know. I care about you.”

The angel tutted fondly and turned back to the drawer he was pawing through. “Oh, Crowley. The feeling is mutual.”

“No, I... ugh.” Disarmed by Aziraphale’s response, Crowley lost his nerve completely. “Yeah. Come out when you’re ready.” He stomped out to the Bentley alone, and beat his fists on the steering wheel while he waited. His eyes were burning with frustration. [7]

[7] Crowley was on the verge of tears, but thought that maybe if he pretended to be very angry they’d go away. Crying wasn’t shameful. He just had nothing to cry over. Well, maybe out of frustration. That was a perfectly respectable thing to cry about. Much better than some stubborn angel.

***

He let it rest for a few days after their dinner, which went quite smoothly. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. Aziraphale enjoyed himself, prattering on as usual and sneaking bites off Crowley’s plate, presenting the demon with forkfuls to taste. It was driving Crowley absolutely mad. 

The two of them meandered through the park side by side, each clutching a bag of bread for the ducks. Crowley decided it was the perfect place for confrontation. Nice and familiar, but not so integral to their lives that he might permanently tar its memory and then regret it. The bookshop had been a thoughtless first choice. Besides, there was plenty of open space to make a quick escape if one was required. Ducks quacked amiably at them as they settled onto a bench. Crowley stared off across St. James’ pond and gave himself a quick pep talk. He wasn’t particularly good at it. Aziraphale’s attention was directed at the ducks to whom he was expertly over-handing morsels of crust, so Crowley cleared his throat. “You know, they cast me out of Heaven as punishment.”

“Don’t think they meant it to be a nice surprise,” Aziraphale interrupted, crumbling up another slice of bread.

“Hush up.” The angel just smiled, and Crowley didn’t have the strength to glare at him. “Anyway. It was supposed to be the worst thing that could happen to me, being banished to Hell. And then I got sent up here. I’ve spent the past six thousand years here, with you. And they’ve been— ah, well. Could have been a bit more productive in terms of furthering hell’s agenda. But I never had quite as much fun in Heaven, you know?”

Unexpectedly, Aziraphale beamed, eyes trained on his own fidgeting hands. The joy that radiated off him did something funny (though not unpleasant) to Crowley’s stomach. “Yes, well, it’s been rather nice company for me too.”

“Erm, yeah.” Crowley had been hoping for something a little more dramatic in reply to his third confession, which had been very difficult to think up and even harder to say without a few bottles of scotch to fortify him. Though he supposed it was better than screaming. “So that’s that.”

“Sun should be setting pretty soon, my dear,” Aziraphale noted. “Shall we pack up?”

Crowley growled. Maybe that was Aziraphale’s idea of letting him off easy, maybe Crowley was pushing too far and making a fool of himself. He didn’t care. The angel was going to hear him out, and he was going to get his nice tidy rejection, and soon enough they’d be friends again. Friends without a secret burning like a comet in Crowley’s chest and whizzing through his lungs every time he spoke, begging to be free. “Come on, angel! Really listen to me for once in your life. Please.” 

Aziraphale turned to him, brow wrinkled in concern. “Is something the matter?”

“I— you--” Crowley gave up on subtlety once and for all. “I adore you, okay? I’m enchanted by you. Clearly, I’ve gone bloody soft for you. You’re everything to me.” Aziraphale gasped softly. He fixed his eyes on a tree on the opposite shore to avoid the angel’s (no doubt disappointed) eyes. “I keep trying to tell you, and every time it’s like you already know, but nothing ever changes, and I just—”

Aziraphale put a hand on Crowley’s cheek. The demon turned to look at him, and he plucked Crowley’s glasses off, slipping them into a vest pocket. Their faces were suddenly very close together. Aziraphale was looking directly into his eyes with an intensity that made it difficult to breathe, so Crowley stopped breathing. He was supremely conscious of his serpentine pupils. His eyes generally inspired fear, but Aziraphale looked into them like they were made of solid gold. The angel’s eyes were unfairly beautiful. They’d always reminded Crowley of the sky, blue and calm and ever so far away. They seemed more open, suddenly. An endless open sky of possibilities. “My dear boy,” he whispered into the air between them, and Crowley inhaled the words like he was drowning. “My dearest. My— oh, the most dear thing in the universe, truly.”

Something wet ran down Crowley’s cheek, and he realized distantly that he might be crying. Well. That was embarrassing, but no more shameful than anything else he’d done lately.

“I love you, Crowley. I’ve loved you for decades now. Centuries.” A gorgeous flush was spreading across the Angel’s pale skin. Crowley tore his eyes away from it and buried his face in Aziraphale’s neck. 

The demon’s tears soaked into the soft fabric of Aziraphale’s jumper, and he heaved in a wet breath as the angel wrapped his arms around Crowley’s shaking torso. Aziraphale smelled like old books and earl grey tea, with just a hint of lavender. “Since the beginning,” he croaked into his angel’s shoulder. “Six thousand years. You gave them your sword. Stupid, beautiful angel. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

Aziraphale carded a hand through Crowley’s hair. “Oh, dearest. I’m sorry it took me so long to catch up.”

“I waited six thousand years,” Crowley mumbled, trying very hard not to sniffle. “I would’ve kept waiting. As long as you wanted.”

Slowly, Aziraphale pulled away. _Now you’ve done it_ , screeched a little voice in the back of Crowley’s mind. Soft fingers tilted his chin up. Aziraphale’s eyes were so terribly gentle. “No more waiting, I think,” he said. And he kissed Crowley.

The kiss was warm and slow. Aziraphale’s hands raked tenderly across Crowley’s neck and shoulders. The demon let out a little keening sound in the back of his throat and kissed back as hard as he could, reaching up to grab a fistful of Aziraphale’s jumper. When they pulled apart, Crowley felt like he was on fire in a very nice way. 

“Yeah. Bugger waiting.” His vision was blurred by tears, but he grinned.

His angel smiled. “Language, Crowley.” And he leaned in to press a feather-light kiss to the corner of the demon’s mouth. “We’ve got quite a lot of time spent waiting to make up for, eh?”

Crowley absolutely didn’t gasp in the most lovestruck way possible. [8]

[8] He did, and Aziraphale heard it.

“I love you,” Aziraphale said again, brushing the hair back from Crowley’s face. “My dearest.”

“And I you, angel.” Crowley took his angel’s face in his hands and slotted their lips together. Bugger waiting, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> I love my dumb gay sons. Title stolen shamelessly from Cat Stevens, characters stolen a little shamefully from the masterful Neil Gaiman. This is the ten thousandth confession fic for this fandom and I’m not sorry. In fact, I’m toying with the idea of writing Aziraphale’s side of the story. 
> 
> I burn kudos and comments for heat in the cold winter, so (though it’s summer now) please help me keep the hearth warm!


End file.
